"When the master finds out—"
"The master?" Miranda inquired. "Is the owner in residence?"
"Yes, miss," Birdwell said. "But he is currently not at home. Allow me to speak for him and say that he would not mind your necessary intrusion. He is a fine gentleman and wouldn't think of denying the hospitality of his home to ladies in need."
Mr. Jones let out an inelegant snort that seemed to contradict the butler's claims, and for a moment Miranda paused and glanced around. The house was in shadows, so she couldn't see much beyond the foyer or the stairs that rose into the darkness above.
There was no telling what lay in the murky environs beyond, and for a moment she felt truly transported into one of Tally's wretchedly overwrought novels. Each and every one of the unwitting heroines in those books fell prey to the sinister master of a shadowy mansion not unlike this strange house.
She shivered, as if suddenly filled with a premonition of disasters untold awaiting them. It was almost on the tip of her tongue to tell Mr. Jones not to bother with their trunks and hasten the girls back into the carriage, when a gust of wind came blustering in through the still open door, sending a raft of cold air to banish her fears.
Premonitions! Whatever was the matter with her? She was just being foolish.
All it took was one look back out the open door to know what a night spent out there would hold, and the thought of a suite of rooms, no matter how dusty (or gloomy) seemed a fine sight more welcome than a night in the carriage with three complaining girls and that rapscallion Brutus.
"Is the master at home?" Felicity was asking, as if such an innocent question were nothing more than a polite query.
At this, Miranda's wandering thoughts fled, and she turned her gaze on the girl. While Felicity did her best to keep the contents of her
Bachelor Chronicles
a secret, Miranda had heard enough gossip about the girl's infamous encyclopedia of eligible men to know exactly what the young lady was about with her inquiry.
A folly of another sort, Miranda guessed. And more fodder for her
Chronicles
.
"Not at the present, miss," Mr. Birdwell told her. This gave Miranda a moment of relief before he finished it by saying, "But I expect him home later this evening. He has probably been detained by the storm."
"Then we shall see him in the morning?" Tally asked, a little too expectantly.
Birdwell shook his head. "The master never arises before two. But I am sure he would be delighted to meet all of you then."
There was another derisive snort from Mr. Jones.
Miranda could well imagine what sort of "gentleman" kept this run-down house or such a scurvy servant and, further, felt the need to maintain city hours while out in the confines of the country.
For truly, what sort of gentleman was out on a night like this?
A rake, no doubt. And a down-on-his-luck one at best.
"Sadly, we shall be long gone before your master arises," Miranda said. "And will not have the opportunity to make his acquaintance."
"But Miss Porter," Felicity protested. "We must not leave before we thank our host. It is only polite."
The girl said it so sweetly that it was hard to imagine that she had the tactical mind of Wellington and the ruthlessness of Napoleon running through her veins when it came to collecting "bachelors" for her
Chronicles
.
"A well-penned note will suffice," Miranda replied. "Our rooms are in which direction, Mr. Birdwell?" Better to get the girls in their beds and well out of sight before the master arrived home in some unholy state.
"This way, Miss Porter," Birdwell said, before turning to Mr. Jones. "See that their trunks are brought up, Bruno." As they started for the staircase, he added, "Once you are settled, I'll see if a tray of refreshments can be found. If you have been traveling all day, you must be famished."
"Oh, bless you, sir," Pippin enthused.
Then in proper fashion, they were shown their rooms, the trunks arrived, and a tray brought
Learning to Kill: Stories